A Potluck of Murder and Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  “Why would a Minneapolis billionaire develop an industry way up here? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Margie cuffed the sleeves of her baseball jersey. “I don’t know about that. For the most part, folks up here have a strong work ethic. But since farm equipment is gettin’ more sophisticated every year, the demand for workers keeps decreasin’, which means young people keep leavin’. Long term, these little farm towns will die unless other businesses move in.”

  “You’re talking stores and restaurants?”

  “Oh, ya betcha, we could use some more of those.” She tapped her index finger against the table. “I had to go 125 miles to find a guy to refinish the hardwood floors upstairs. And those of us who live in Kennedy can’t buy milk or bread without drivin’ all the way to Hallock, and if you remember, that’s practically ten miles away.”

  “Then, why don’t you advertise for people to relocate here and start some of those businesses?”

  Margie rubbed the tip of her thumb against her index and middle fingers. “Even small operations take money. And life up here isn’t for everyone. It’s pretty quiet, not to mention darn cold durin’ the winter.” She rested for the count of two. “Plus, those types of businesses alone won’t save us. We gotta have companies that can employ a fair number of people.”

  She bobbed her head to the north. “The canola plant’s a blessin’. So’s the sugar beet plant over in Drayton, there. But most folks are of the mind we hafta diversify. And, supposedly, that’s where Greg Rogers, or people like him, come in.” She set her elbows on the table and balanced her chin on her fists. “The fact of the matter is, we can’t put all our eggs in one basket, so to speak. If every company around is related to agriculture, a few bad farm years strung together could ruin an entire town.”

  “Which makes the wind farm a good idea, right?”

  “In theory. But, in spite of what Greg Rogers, the President, and your Boo-Boo—”

  “He wasn’t ‘mine!’”

  She tittered. “Ya know what I mean.”

  I regarded her intently. “You sure have negative feelings about their project.”

  “Well, somethin’s felt off about it from the start.” She rose, her stool squeaking as it scraped across the vinyl floor. “And now one of the guys involved is dead. Murdered.”

  MARGIE SAUNTERED TO THE REFRIGERATOR, speaking over her shoulder. “John called earlier, and I asked ’im about the bachelor party. Not surprisingly, the death of your Boo . . . I mean the death of Owen Bair came up. He said Randy phoned him last night to let him know he wouldn’t make it to the party because of work. The murder and all. Then, later, he dropped by anyways to question some of the guests.”

  “He must have gone over there right after he left here.”

  “Yah, I reckon. John said the party lasted ’til the wee hours of the mornin’. Way later than intended. So he’s gonna sleep most of the day. I won’t see him ’til tonight.”

  I swallowed the last of my coffee, returning my cup to the table. “What did he learn about the murder?”

  “Not a whole heck of a lot. Though the President supposedly knew a few things.”

  “Of course he did.” I couldn’t keep the derision out of my tone.

  “He claimed Greg Rogers only gave Owen Bair a job because he felt sorry for the guy. Called ’im a ‘has-been jock.’ Said he—the President, that is—did most of the work up here over the last couple months, findin’ investors and all. He also said he’s been ‘personally’ workin’ with Greg Rogers to secure the money needed to break ground this spring.” She opened the refrigerator door and scrutinized its contents.

  “Isn’t Boo-Boo’s death going to delay things?”

  “The President doesn’t think so. He said Owen Bair wasn’t much more than a goffer, runnin’ money and paperwork from here to Rogers’ people down in the Cities.”

  “In light of what he told you, that doesn’t sound right.”

  “Well, remember, the President’s full of hot air much of the time.” She rummaged through the pans and bowls, obviously on a mission. “He was pressurin’ everyone at the bachelor party to cough up cash for the project. I guess he went so far as to accuse John of not bein’ loyal to the community if he didn’t give a minimum of $100,000.”

  “Yawza! That’s a lot of money.”

  “The President supposedly gave $250,000.”

  I whistled.

  “But, as I said, he’s a blowhard. Maybe he ponied up that much. Maybe not.”

  “Is John going to invest?”

  “No. He told the President, at his age, he doesn’t do any long-term investin’. Said he doesn’t even buy green bananas.”

  Margie claimed an orange, oblong Tupperware container and closed the fridge door. “I guess a couple guys at the party also tossed around a theory about Owen’s death.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “They called him a big-time womanizer and said he most likely got killed by a ticked-off husband or boyfriend. He evidently stayed at the Motor Inn in Karlstad whenever he was up here, and he picked up women in the Maverick Bar in Lake Bronson. Supposedly, he didn’t care if they were attached or not.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Uh-huh.” Margie’s expression was one part amusement and two parts circumspection. “Randy’s a smart man, Emme. So are most of the other deputies. They’ll figure out what happened in the park.”

  “I’m sure they will.”

  Margie pressed her lips together until the corners of her mouth resembled question marks.

  “What?” I asked defensively.

  “Ya don’t hafta get involved, ya know.”

  “I never said I planned to.”

  “Well, it’s obvious you’re thinkin’ along those lines.”

  “Am not.” Her pinched features made it clear she didn’t believe me. Probably for good reason. “Well, thinking isn’t doing.”

  With a shake of her head, she broke eye contact with me to admire the bars she had uncovered. “Emme, we only have a few jobs today, and none of them concerns police business.” She motioned to the pan. “First, we need to make sure these bars taste good enough to serve at the reception tomorrow. They’re Almond Bars. Helen Kolden made them. She’s a very good baker, and these are one of her specialties.”

  “So, why do they have to be tested?”

  “Because I’m . . . umm . . . really cravin’ ’em.”

  Utensils clanged as she rummaged through a nearby drawer. “For Pete’s sake, I can never find what I’m searchin’ for.”

  “Calm down. You’ll get your sugar fix soon enough.” I leaned against the counter. “When did you become such a sweets’ eater?”

  “I dunno.” She plucked a pizza cutter from the drawer and addressed my notable confusion by explaining, “A pizza cutter’s the best way to cut certain kinds of bars. Leaves real nice edges.” She went to work, vertical slices followed by horizontal ones. “I suspect I have all these cravin’s because Vivian has warned me every day for the past six weeks to avoid sugar. And fat. And anything else that tastes good.” There was a gleam in her eyes. “Besides, with ya becomin’ a health nut and all, someone’s gotta pick up the slack.”

  I lightly hip-checked her. “Health nut? I’m hardly a health nut. Since I arrived in town, I’ve had more than my share of sweets.”

  “But ya sure as heck aren’t eatin’ ’em like ya used to.”

  A second hip check, this one hard enough to bump her away from the pan. “Well, let’s see what I can do to change that.”

  MARGIE’S PHONE RANG, the ring tone Kenny Chesney’s song, “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.”

  Borrowing one of her favorite lines, I uttered under my breath, “Oh, brother.”

  She put the phone to her ear and left the room, and for that, I was grateful. I had no desire to listen in. Doing so might upset my stomach, and I wanted to finish t
he Almond Bar I’d just started.

  Again, don’t get me wrong. I liked Margie’s fiancée. John Deere was one of the good guys. But I’d heard more than enough from Margie and him during my last visit. See, they’d spent the night together in the bedroom Margie kept upstairs, above the café, and apparently presumed the wall separating that room from the one I was in was thicker than it was. Now I couldn’t listen to Marvin Gaye music without becoming slightly ill, which was a shame because I’d always enjoyed Marvin Gaye.

  A KNOCK ON THE CAFÉ’S back door put an end to my stroll down memory lane, such as it was. Naturally, I hoped the person on the other side was Randy Ryden. We had arranged to spend the day together, although those plans got waylaid after Boo-Boo’s murder.

  After a pat on Otto’s head, I opened the door, and my stomach sank so low I had to press my knees together to keep it from crushing my toes. It wasn’t Randy. Not even close.

  “Sheriff Halverson,” I squeaked as my throat constricted. “I’ll get Margie.”

  He trudged past me, not waiting to be invited inside. He didn’t wipe his feet, either.

  Obviously disturbed by the guy’s lack of manners, Otto barked ferociously. At least ferociously for a ten-pound dog.

  Right away I swept the little guy into my arms so the sheriff couldn’t drop-kick him across the room. Not that he had threatened to. I just took him for that kind of person.

  “I’m not here to see Margie,” the man barked, sounding much like a dog himself. “It’s you I’ve got business with.”

  Okay, I had expected that all along. I was merely doing what I could to delay the inevitable. And who could blame me? The sheriff was a big meanie. I’d been subjected to his wrath on a few occasions and didn’t wish to experience it again.

  On top of that, he was the President’s lackey. He did the President’s bidding in return for financial support at election time. Just another reason to keep my distance. But how could I do that with him standing right in front of me?

  I couldn’t, of course, which left me no choice but to hike up my big-girl panties, metaphorically speaking, and deal with the situation. “What’s on your mind?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

  He propped himself against the Hoosier cabinet. He was an imposing figure, reminiscent of a bulldog. Squat with broad shoulders, clipped hair, and a considerable underbite. “Why were you scheduled to meet Owen Bair at the state park in Lake Bronson?”

  He watched closely as I pushed the sleeves of my sweater up to my elbows. I was trying to create an air of toughness I didn’t feel.

  “I asked you a question,” he sniped when I didn’t answer fast enough. “Why’d you meet with Owen Bair?”

  Otto was scared. His tiny heart pounded against his chest, which, in turn, thumped against the palm of my hand. Not surprisingly, his fear fed my anger. “I didn’t meet with the man,” I growled.

  “You were scheduled to.”

  “Yes, but he never showed.”

  “How long did you wait?”

  “I don’t know. Around an hour. Didn’t Randy tell you?”

  “Yeah, he told me, but I wanted to talk to you myself.” His gaze roamed over me. “Mighty convenient that you have that gas receipt.”

  “What can I say? I needed gas. It’s impossible to travel all the way up here from Minneapolis on one tank. Impossible in a Ford Focus, at any rate.”

  He stared at me, but I refused to blink.

  “What were you two planning to discuss, Miss Malloy?” He shifted his considerable weight until the Hoosier loudly complained.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You set up a meeting with the man but don’t know why?” He was the second person to find that strange.

  “He said he’d explain everything when we got together.” It made perfect sense to me.

  “At the Visitors’ Center in the park?”

  “Yep.” We seemed to be talking in circles, which, I sensed, was causing deep wrinkles in my forehead. For a split second, I imagined I resembled one of those Klingons from Star Trek. And I smiled.

  “What’s so funny, Miss Malloy?”

  “Nothing.” I applied a more serious face. “Absolutely nothing.” He folded his arms. “What led you two to break up in the first place?”

  “Huh? We broke up a long time ago. And what does that have to do with—”

  “He found someone better?”

  “What?” The question bugged me. As you may have gathered, while no longer in love with Boo-Boo, I remained sensitive about the circumstances surrounding the end of our relationship.

  “Did I hit a nerve, Miss Malloy?”

  I refrained from slapping the man, but I do believe I snarled at him. I’m also pretty sure Otto grinned at me when I did.

  The sheriff sneered, and I ordered myself to take a mental step back before I did something stupid. He was merely attempting to rile me, and he’d succeed only if I let him. “As I said, that was a long time ago.”

  The sheriff followed up with a few more questions, and from what I could tell, none of them served any purpose other than to bait me. Even so, I answered each one, although I may have offered up more than a little attitude along the way.

  When he was done, he plodded past me before wheeling back around. “How long do you intend to stay in town, Miss Malloy?”

  “Through the weekend.”

  “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

  “What do you mean? I’m here for Margie’s wedding tomorrow afternoon.”

  He glared. “It might be smart to leave before then.”

  “Huh? You’re asking me to ‘get out of town’? Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”

  “Well, you know the old saying, ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’” He peered down his nose at me. “I’m going to charge someone in the death of Owen Bair, and I’m going to do it sooner rather than later. Now, if you stick around, I may be inclined to consider you, regardless of that receipt of yours.”

  He pulled the door open and stepped outside. “Think about it, Miss Malloy. And, in the meantime, stay out of my way. Don’t get involved in my investigation. If you do, I’ll haul you in on obstruction charges.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I’d also hate to see Deputy Ryden in trouble—maybe even lose his job—because of his association with you. But it could happen, especially if I discover you’ve been snooping in my business.”

  I had to grind my molars to keep from telling him to go to hell.

  “There’s always trouble when you show up.” He sucked his teeth, that disgusting slurping noise punctuating his remarks. “Why do you suppose that is?” With the door open, cold air swirled into the kitchen, sending shivers up my spine and down my arms. At least I told myself the gooseflesh was due to the cold and nothing else. “Makes me wonder about you, Miss Malloy. Really makes me wonder.”

  As soon as he left, I hugged Otto to my chest before squaring my shoulders and collecting all the composure I could find. Holding onto those few scraps, I then mumbled something about how the man didn’t frighten me. Not much, at any rate. I also said something about being able to take care of myself. Again, I didn’t catch it all because my pulse was pounding in my ears.

  Chapter Seven

  MARGIE MADE HER WAY back into the kitchen. Since there was no point in causing her distress the day before her wedding, I decided to stay mum about the sheriff’s visit. And to keep her from detecting that I was hiding something, I made a beeline for Gail Larson’s famous Frosted Fudge Brownies. I figured the best way to avoid answering questions or looking guilty was to stuff my face.

  As I swallowed the last of my brownie, Barbie came through the back door. She kicked snow from her boots, and my pup, who had Margie’s permission to laze around the café since it was closed, lifted his head and sniffed. Apparently, he was befuddled by her appearance and taken aback by her odor. I couldn’t blame him.

  Her hair was smashed against the side of her head, and her eyes were puffy. Most
of her usual makeup was missing, and what was there was smudged, as if left over from the previous day. The yoga pants and Kittson Central Bearcat tee-shirt that peeked out from beneath her unbuttoned jacket were badly stained, like they had served as pajamas, and more, for several days running. And, on top of all that, she smelled like dirty socks.

  Weighted down with bags, she trudged to the prep table, where she dumped out everything. Combs, brushes, scissors, a blow dryer, two boxes of hair dye, and at least a half dozen bottles of nail polish clattered as they scattered across the metal surface. “Okay, let’s get this over and done with.” She sounded like she was about to undergo a mammogram rather than spend a day playing “beauty parlor.”

  Margie didn’t pick up on her tone. She was too caught up in her own nervousness, as demonstrated by the way she approached the table. She moved with trepidation, as if sitting near Barbie might truly cause her pain. And given Barbie’s mood, I considered it a strong possibility. “Now take it easy with all that stuff there,” Margie warned. “Ya know I’m not much for a lot of fuss.”

  “I’m well aware of that.” Barbie tossed her jacket on a stool but continued to slog around in her heavy boots, leaving small slush puddles wherever she walked. “But you’re almost sixty, Margie. It’s time to give up the ponytail. It’s the only thing your sister and I agree on.”

  “A ponytail’s perfect for work. Keeps my hair out of the food.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” Barbie rolled her eyes so hard I saw nothing but the whites.

  “All I’m sayin’ is ya gotta watch what you’re doin’.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “I mean it, Barbie. I don’t like gettin’ all gussied up.”

  “Can I trim your hair or not?”

  “I suppose.” Margie sounded less than excited by the prospect.

  “If you don’t want my help, just say so, and I’ll leave.” Barbie’s tenor rose, a mix of exasperation and petulance riding her words.

  “It’s not that. It’s just—”

  Barbie slammed her comb on the table. “You’re impossible sometimes, you know that?’