A Potluck of Murder and Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  She eyed me directly. “He’s on the city council now. Moved here from Hallock a couple months ago. Said an executive at the canola plant offered him so darn much money for his house he couldn’t turn him down. Personally, I think he just wanted to get closer to Vivian.” For some strange reason, the President was obsessed with Margie’s sister, “strange” being the operative word to describe the obsession as well as the President and Vivian. “Anyways, a month or so back, he took Burr Nelson’s spot on the council.”

  Margie’s features highlighted her contempt for the President, yet that contempt appeared to be at war with some other sentiment. Amusement, perhaps? “Burr was ice fishin’ up at Lake of the Woods,” she went on to inform me. “His truck fell through the ice, and he dove in after it. Uff-da, what an idiot.” She shook her head. “Shortly after that, he gave up his council seat, and the President was appointed to serve out his term.”

  Randy cleared his throat, the universal sign to return to the subject at hand.

  “I’ll go quick,” Margie assured him, “but I hafta tell Emme another story ’bout Burr. It’s a doozy.”

  Randy unzipped his jacket, evidently resigned to the reality that Margie would explain what she knew about Boo-Boo in her own time. And this was not the time.

  “Anyways,” she began, “one day, a few years back, when Burr came in for lunch, I asked if he had read somethin’ or other in the paper. And he answered that he hadn’t because the truth of the matter was, he couldn’t read very well. His actual words were, ‘I’m pretty much illegitimate.’”

  “Wait a second,” I said on the back side of a snicker. “You just told me he was on the city council.”

  “Oh, yah, that’s right. But don’t get me goin’ about that now.” She snuck a peek at Randy. “I hafta hurry.” She thumbed in his direction. “He’s gettin’ antsy.”

  Randy restated the obvious, as if a reminder was called for. “I’m investigating a murder, Margie.”

  “Exactly. The guy’s dead. He’s not goin’ anywhere.”

  Randy glowered.

  And I took that as my cue to wrap things up. “So, what happened to him in the end, Margie?”

  “Well, someone pulled him out of the water and took ’im to the Tradin’ Post in Warroad. And the sales’ clerk there put ’im in dry clothes and filled ’im up with hot coffee before sendin’ him on his way. He was fine, yet he left the council. Said he had to take it easy. But I don’t know . . .”

  “Burr,” I repeated, letting my mouth get a feel for the word. It surely wasn’t the man’s given name. It was too unusual. What’s more, half the men in these small towns went by nicknames. “Is that how he came to be known as Burr? He fell through the ice a while ago?”

  Margie worked to keep her chuckles in check. “Actually, that was his third go-round in the lake.”

  Randy broke in. “The first was three or four years ago, when he drove his snowcat right into a big patch of open water.”

  “Snowcat?”

  “You know, snowmobile. Yeah, every year he’s determined to be the first person out on the ice.”

  Again, Margie took over. “Which means, more often than not, he’s also the first to break through. Oh, yah, even with this year’s record cold temperatures and the extra early start to winter, he went out there just a little too early.”

  Both of them chuckled.

  “You people are brutal,” I scolded. “The poor man almost drown. Three times.”

  Margie sighed. “And now the President’s on the city council. From what I gather, he’s itchin’ to run for mayor next, God help us.” She glimpsed at me knowingly. “You’d expect that gettin’ caught in that sex scandal last fall would of caused him to crawl back under his rock, but he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by his shenanigans. Ya know, I get the impression he believes he did absolutely nothin’ wrong.” She tsked. “Some folks have no shame.”

  The President’s real name was John Hanson. Folks called him the President because his claim to fame, limited as it might be, was that his namesake and great, great, great, grandfather, or something like that, was president of the United States under the Articles of Confederation. The current John Hanson spent an inordinate amount of time petitioning every group around to pressure the powers that be into demanding that history books be rewritten to recognize his ancestor as the true father of our country. Yeah, he was a pompous ass. Scary, too. Not too long ago, I had learned all of that along with far more about his sexual peccadillos than any human being should have to know. Since then, the mere mention of the man gave me the willies.

  “Let’s get back to the whole wind farm thing,” Randy suggested.

  After one last shudder, I agreed.

  “Margie,” he said, “did you hear of anyone else who might have invested a lot of money in that deal?”

  Margie bit down on her thin bottom lip. “I’m not sure off hand. I’ll hafta think about it.”

  “You do that.” He stood, and we did the same. “I guess that’s it for now.”

  “Emme, why don’t ya walk Randy on out?” A sly smile played across my friend’s lips. “I’m goin’ to hit the hay.”

  Randy ambled toward the door only to circle back around. “One more thing, Margie. Did Owen Bair ever tell you who he was working with?”

  Margie leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. “Oh, for sure. He mentioned to everyone that the man in charge was Greg Rogers.”

  “The Minneapolis billionaire?” I was surprised the guy was involved in a project this far from the Twin Cities. Then, again, what did I know? I occasionally skimmed the paper’s Business section, but I wasn’t an avid reader of it.

  “Oh, yah,” Margie answered, “I got the impression he expected all of us to jump at the chance to invest with someone like Rogers.”

  “I understood he was contemplating some kind of project around here,” Randy said, “but I never heard any details.”

  “No disrespect,” Margie stated, “but I doubt any of ya guys in law enforcement were high on his list of possible investors. With what ya get paid, he probably didn’t see any point in talkin’ to ya.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But I should have heard something ‘in the wind,’ so to speak.”

  I groaned at his attempt at “wind farm” humor.

  “It’s not surprisin’ ya missed it,” Margie assured him. “With all your traipsin’ back and forth to Williston this fall, ya were busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest.”

  Before he spoke, Randy saluted Margie, the queen of quips. “But I’m done out there for now,” he then said, referring to the booming oil fields in western North Dakota, where law enforcement officers from across the region were assisting the local police. Randy was the primary representative from this area. “I’ve got no excuse. I better check into it right away.” He fixed his eyes on me. “It could very well be tied to murder.”

  I LAY IN BED, the radio on the nightstand turned low, the D.J. playing songs to “help you through a cold, winter night.” Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash were singing “A Girl from the North Country,” and even though the sounds were soothing, reflections from the day horned in on any prospective sleep, much to Otto’s dismay.

  Otto is my dog. A two-year-old Maltese-poodle mix. I more or less adopted him during my last visit to Kennedy. He’d been abandoned, and we took an immediate liking to each other. Margie adored him, too. That’s why he was welcome to stay with me above the cafe.

  Icy snow pellets pinged against the window, as Otto repositioned himself in the crook of my knees. At the same time, Dylan and Cash sang, “Remember me to the one who lives there. She was once a true love of mine.”

  The song prompted ruminations about my relationship with Randy. I was pretty sure we were okay. He had given me a mind-blowing kiss before leaving the café. But since all his kisses blew my mind, they probably weren’t a good barometer.

  Emme, he never even suggested that you gather your stuff and jo
in him back at his place, now did he? With those words uttered by a cruel voice in the back of my head, a twist of doubt tied itself to my insecurities and formed a pretzel-like knot in my stomach. So maybe you’re not “okay.” Maybe he’s waiting to see if you’ll muck up your relationship again by reconnecting with Buddy Johnson or butting into another murder investigation.

  Curling into a ball of neuroses, I mumbled under my breath that Randy had nothing to worry about on either front. Buddy Johnson was old news. And, while curious about Boo-Boo’s death, I’d promised Randy before he left that I was done poking around in police business. Not only had it proven hazardous to my love life, it had jeopardized my personal safety on more than one occasion. Plus, as the deputy had noted, Sheriff Halverson would undoubtedly take every opportunity to badger me, and I wasn’t about to make it easy for him.

  Sure, I still had dreams of becoming a big-time investigative reporter. It was something I’d envisioned ever since my parents’ death, which, in my opinion, was caused by negligence on the part of the Minnesota Department of Transportation. Yet, to my dismay, the state accepted little responsibility for the accident. As a result, I wanted to do right by my folks and become a reporter who’d ferret out wrongdoing and write about it to affect real change in our justice system.

  To date, however, the two times I’d gotten involved in police investigations, I was left feeling conflicted and more than a little disillusioned. Consequently, I’d decided to avoid delving into any cases of life and death for a while. Instead, I planned to concentrate on my job as a food reporter while, at the same time, encouraging the editors at the paper to assign me stories about less serious community issues, like snow removal. But, given my curious nature, I was struggling with my decision.

  AS I PULLED THE COVERS up around my neck, another picture of Boo-Boo invaded my mind. It was followed by an array of images, all of them from the last time I’d seen him. I didn’t relish reliving that day. It was one of the worst of my life. Yet, I couldn’t seem to prevent my head from going there.

  I had only wanted to surprise him. The Twins were in the middle of a long road trip, and when they stopped in Chicago to play the White Sox, I flew down and rushed to Boo-Boo’s hotel room in hopes of catching him before he left for the ballfield. And catch him, I did. He was there with two women, all three of them naked. He and one of the human blow-up dolls were in bed, tangled up in sheets, while the other stood next to me. She had answered the door, presuming I was room service.

  At the sight of them, I actually vomited a little in my mouth, but I didn’t let that deter me. Swallowing the bile and pushing my humiliation aside, I allowed my rage to take over. I must have looked crazed because the women seemed so scared they didn’t move a muscle, and believe me, in view of their state of undress, I would have noticed.

  Of course, Boo-Boo started fast talking—making excuses and telling lies—but I paid him no mind. Rather, I gathered their clothes, along with the hotel robes and towels, opened the window, and tossed everything outside, watching it fall to the ground, several stories below.

  Turning around, I found the three of them slack jawed, apparently stunned by my actions and more than a little nervous over the prospect of what I might say or do next. But I didn’t speak. I couldn’t find my voice. And since I wasn’t able to think of anything else to do that wouldn’t land me in jail, I simply left the building.

  As I walked across the hotel courtyard, I spotted a bald man sitting on a bench, waiting for the airport shuttle. He pulled a black bra off his head and dangled it in front of his face, examining it closely before popping open his suitcase and stuffing it inside. I also saw a couple homeless men sifting through Boo-Boo’s belongings, while a female hotel worker, possibly on break, scrutinized a trampy slip of a dress as she sucked on a cigarette.

  I managed to wish them all “good hunting” before returning to my rental car, where I cried until there were no more tears left in me. Then, I ate the complimentary chocolates I had snatched from the dresser in Boo-Boo’s room.

  With that memory thankfully waning, I flipped over, and Otto growled. “Sorry,” I mumbled, “I can’t sleep. True, Boo-Boo was an ass. Even so, I want to know what he needed to talk to me about. I also want to find out who killed him. And why?”

  Otto lowered his head and closed his eyes. Either he didn’t care about Boo-Boo, or he was content to leave the investigation to the police.

  How about you, Emme? Are you willing to let the authorities handle the case without interfering?

  “Yep,” I muttered. “I have no desire to get involved.” I gave that some more thought. “No desire whatsoever,” I repeated, as if I might need additional convincing.

  Chapter Six

  I WOKE BEFORE EIGHT O’CLOCK, sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains that covered the only window in my room. I brushed my teeth and showered, doing my best to keep my hair from getting wet. With it being long and curly, it took forever to dry and comb.

  I pulled on a pair of skinny jeans and a baby-blue, fitted sweater, along with my red, high-top, tennis shoes. After that, I added a bit of mascara to accent my emerald-colored eyes and swiped on some pale-pink lip gloss before bounding downstairs, Otto in my arms.

  Margie was already in the kitchen, listening to Chris Stapleton on the juke box. Like me, Margie wore jeans, but hers were topped with a blue, long-sleeved, Hot Dish Heaven baseball jersey. Her hair was pulled back, as usual, and she was makeup free. She never went for much makeup, but this morning her face was conspicuously absent of any, leaving her thin lips and pale brows virtually invisible.

  She poured me coffee, while I donned my jacket and hooked Otto to his leash. I retrieved my mug from her and led my dog outside. When we returned a cold minute later, she exchanged the mug for a small plastic container of water and another with Otto’s food in it.

  “What’s on your agenda for today?” I asked while settling Otto down for breakfast by the back door.

  “Well, first of all, I wancha to taste this British Pasty.”

  “What’s a British Pasty?” I shucked off my coat, hooked it on a peg by the door, and blew on my hands to warm them.

  “It’s like a turnover, only filled with meat and vegetables. My dear friend Mary Beth Welter gave me this here recipe. Most folks eat pasties for supper. But, as far as I’m concerned, the crust makes them a good breakfast food, too.” Slipping on a kitchen mitt, she pulled a cookie sheet from the oven. The “pasty” resembled a turnover, though much bigger. She cut it in two and placed each steaming half on a separate plate. “Now, let me know what ya think, there.”

  With my plate, utensils, and cup in hand, I moved to the metal prep table, claiming the same stool I had the night before. Margie followed, sitting kitty-corner from me.

  My fork and knife at the ready, I inhaled the aroma of beef and potatoes. “Smells good.”

  Margie slapped the table. “Good? Why that pasty dragged ‘good’ out back and smacked it around until it cried!”

  A giggle bubbled up inside of me. “You’re right. It smells way better than ‘good.’” I cut into the crust and stabbed some meat, blowing on it until reasonably sure I wouldn’t burn the roof of my mouth. I then slid it between my lips. “Mmm. It’s delicious. Utterly delicious.”

  Margie winked at me before checking the time. “We better eat up. Barbie will be here before we know it. She’s gonna trim and highlight my hair, paint my nails, and give me some makeup tips for the weddin’.”

  “Can you believe it, Margie? Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, and you’ll close out the year by getting married.”

  “Honestly? I kinda wish tomorrow was over and my life was back to normal. I don’t like all this . . . hoopla.”

  “Margie, your life will never be ‘back to normal.’ Come the New Year, you’ll have a husband.”

  She must have mulled that over while we ate because some time later she said, “Yah, I’ll be married, but doggone it, I don’t want things to change a whole hec
k of a lot. I’m happy with my life the way it is. John is, too.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “But I’m lookin’ forward to havin’ him to snuggle up against on cold nights.”

  “Trust me, I know first-hand, you two do far more than snuggle.”

  Margie slapped my forearm. “Eat your breakfast!”

  For several minutes, we did just that. Then, she said, “Wanna get your hair fixed, too? How ’bout havin’ your nails done? I know Barbie would be happy to do both.”

  I fisted a clump of my curly, red hair. “Barbie may be tough, but even she’s not tough enough to tackle this.” I dropped my hand. “I’m open to getting my nails polished, though.” I sipped my coffee.

  “How do ya feel about a bikini wax?”

  My coffee went down the wrong way, leaving me to sputter.

  “My sentiments exactly,” she replied. “But Barbie’s really pushin’ it.”

  I cleared my throat. “A good wax job takes some skill, Margie. And . . . umm . . . it’s kind of intimate. I wouldn’t let just anyone do it.” I couldn’t help but tease, “Unless you and Barbie are way closer than you let on.” She flicked her finger against my shoulder, and I added, “That might come as a surprise to John.” She flicked me again.

  OUT OF WISECRACKS, I went back to my breakfast, my taste buds pleased with what I was sending their way. At the same time, my mind jumped from thoughts of bikini waxes to Boo-Boo’s murder and the investment project possibly tied to it. Yeah, I know, some mighty big leaps, but that’s how my mind works. “Margie, tell me more about the wind farm operation. That whole deal seems unreal to me.”

  She reached over and squeezed my forearm. “I can only imagine, sweetie.”