A Potluck of Murder and Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  “And you’re downright testy.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yah, ya are.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  It was my turn to yell. “Enough!”

  “I was only—” Barbie began before I interrupted.

  “Enough!” I repeated.

  I spun in Margie’s direction and asked in a calm manner, “Now, what are you serving at the wedding reception?” Not a subtle segue by any means, but it did the trick. It ended the bickering, and that was my goal.

  You see, I get extremely tense when people I care about argue. I’m not used to it. As the sole child of parents who truly loved each other, I was rarely subjected to it. And even after my folks died, the aunt and uncle who took me in seldom raised their voices. Consequently, I never grew accustomed to verbal sparring and routinely attempted to circumvent it by changing the subject. Yeah, total avoidance, as my therapist loved to remind me.

  “Well,” Margie started, fully aware of what I was doing and slightly embarrassed for her role in the tiff that had led to my unease, “the ceremony’s at four o’clock, at Maria Lutheran, over there on the west end of town. The reception’s in the middle room, beginnin’ right after the wed-din’.” The middle room was the space that bridged the Hot Dish Heaven Café and the VFW bar. “Supper’s in the middle room, too, at six. We’re servin’ pan-fried walleye, and we’re smokin’ a pig. All side dishes will be potluck. Folks ’round here insist on feedin’ me on my weddin’ day since I’ve fed them for years.”

  “That’s nice.” I made tracks to the refrigerator, opened the door, and perused the contents. My resistance to treats had taken a nosedive since coming to town. I wasn’t sure if it was because I faced more temptation here than at home or because anxiety had been nibbling away at me ever since I’d left my Minneapolis driveway. In any event, I craved sugar—big time—and the Frosted Fudge Brownies were all gone.

  I selected a cake pan with a tin top. I had no hint as to what was inside, but my spidey senses suggested it was sweets of some kind. I set the pan on the counter and slid the top off. “May I?” I was well aware of my sheepish expression. After all, I’d complained ad nauseam about my sugar addiction.

  “Go ahead. Have one.” Margie sounded like the devil herself. “They’re M&M Bars,” she added, prodding me with her virtual pitchfork. “Shawna Hennen made them. She’s one of the women who brought food early. And since there’s no way we’ll eat everythin’ tomorrow, you might as well have whatever ya want today.”

  “Sit still,” Barbie scolded as she swatted Margie’s shoulder. “I’m cutting hair here!”

  “I hardly moved. Yep, I’m sidin’ with Janice on this one. You’ve been so bitchy lately, Jesus couldn’t live with ya.”

  “I’m not hard to live with! And I’m not bitchy!”

  “Yah, ya are. At first, I chalked it up to menopause, but it’s way more than that. You’re a big crab.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Stop!” The bar in my mouth slid down my throat, making me cough uncontrollably.

  Barbie whisked to my side and pounded my back. “Are you all right?”

  I gasped, “Will be.” Leaning over, I clutched my knees. “Just give me a second.” I peeked up at her and wheezed, “And for God’s sake, get rid of those scissors.”

  She slapped me some more, scissors still firmly in hand. “I’m sorry, Emme. I know how much you detest bickering. And here I am, sniping at everyone.”

  I flapped my hands in the air. “No problem. I just—”

  She hit me again, way harder than necessary.

  “Hey, stop!” I hollered, inducing yet more hacking.

  She gave me another whack, and Otto lifted his head and growled like a much bigger dog. That got her to step away.

  “I’m sorry,” she whined. “I’m truly sorry.”

  I straightened and repeatedly cleared my raw throat. “It’s . . . fine. You . . . just caught me by—”

  “No, it’s not fine.” Tears leaked down her cheeks.

  “Oh, Barbie, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to yell.” I swallowed several times. “It’s just—”

  “It’s not that.” She covered her face and broke down. “It’s . . . it’s . . . the rest of . . . my life. It’s . . . turning to . . . sh-sh-shit.”

  Margie removed the scissors from Barbie’s clutches and wrapped her in a bear hug. “Oh, there, there, now.” She spoke on a whisper. “Every-thin’s gonna be okay. But this has gone on long enough. If ya expect to go the rest of the day without tellin’ us what’s wrong, ya got another thing comin’.” She guided Barbie back to the work table, planted her hands on her shoulders, and gently pressed her down onto a stool. “Now, out with it.”

  WE WAITED FOR BARBIE to catch her breath. After she more or less had, she wiped her runny nose with the bottom of her shirt and aimed her watery gaze at Margie. “It’s really hard to take you seriously,” she said through a bad case of the hiccups, “with your hair all crooked like that.” Hiccup.

  She was right. Margie’s hair was nearly two inches shorter on the left than the right. “Nice try, kiddo,” Margie replied, “but you’re not changin’ the subject. Now, out with it. What’s happenin’ with ya?”

  Barbie had the sudden urge to inspect her cuticles. “Well . . . umm . . . it’s not me.” Hiccup. “It’s . . . umm . . . Tom.” She was referring to her husband.

  Margie cocked her head until her hair was just about even. “What about ’im?”

  “Well, he’s not doing well.”

  “Is he sick?” I asked.

  She served up a fatalistic shrug.

  Margie’s manner changed from confused to alarmed. “He’s not . . .”

  Barbie bobbed her head. “His medicine quit working.” Her words were barely audible. “And he won’t go to the doctor.”

  “How did that happen?” Margie demanded to know. “How’d his medicine give out? He’s been managin’ pretty darn well for what? Thirty years?”

  “About that.” A belated hiccup. “But he’s not doing well now. Hasn’t been for the past couple months.” Barbie swiped at her runny nose with the back of her hand. “He doesn’t eat or sleep. He’s in a foul mood. And he bought an old car online. Supposedly, he’s going to restore it.”

  Hesitantly, I asked, “Is that so bad? Lots of people work on old cars.”

  “The car cost $40,000, and Tom can’t change a tire!” With that, another crying jag took hold, and I handed her a napkin in hopes she’d use it in place of her clothes or her limbs.

  Then, while she sobbed, I stirred the gray matter in my head in an effort to come up with some memory to help me better understand the situation. I had a vague recollection of Barbie informing me that her husband struggled with mental health issues, but I’d never seen any sign of trouble and couldn’t recall any of the details she had shared.

  “That’s . . . not . . . the worst of it,” she said once she again found her voice, shaky as it was. “He invested $75,000 in some deal he thinks . . . is . . . is going to make us rich. All things totaled, he cleaned out our life savings. And he did it without even consulting me.”

  “What kind of investment?” A sense of dread settled in me.

  Barbie rubbed her eyes, smearing old mascara toward her ears. “A wind farm of some sort. He bought a promissory note. He was supposed to earn at least twenty-percent interest, starting right away, but he hasn’t received a dime.”

  Margie gaped at me, her eyes practically bugging out of her head.

  “A baseball player talked him into the deal,” Barbie informed us. “Some guy by the name of Owen Bair. I told Tom that when a deal sounds too good to be true, it usually is. And I threatened to leave him if he didn’t get our . . . our money back.” She took in a settling breath. “I got the car guy to void that transaction, but I didn’t know how to get hold of the baseball player. And since Tom wouldn’t tell me, I gave him forty-eight hours to
get the money or else.”

  “And?” Margie and I uttered in unison.

  “He was to meet with the man yesterday.”

  “And?” We repeated, our tone climbing right along with our apprehension.

  “He came home last night drunk. Drunk as a skunk.”

  Margie raised her hand. “Wait a minute. Tom’s been sober for—”

  “Thirty years!” Barbie threw both used napkins onto the table. “Yet, he was drunk last night. He passed out on the couch. Right after telling me he didn’t get the money.” Her voice fell to a hush. “It was a couple hours after I heard on the police scanner—the one I use for work—that Owen Bair was found dead.” Her lips quivered, giving notice that more tears were on the way. “Last week I was afraid he’d lose his teaching job because of calling in sick so often lately. Now I’m . . . I’m afraid . . . he’ll go to prison for . . . for murder!”

  Margie grabbed another napkin for her friend, while I stood by, feeling like a jerk for ever getting involved with Boo-Boo Bair.

  “Barbie,” I said, desperate to ease her pain and, if possible, my own guilt, “from what I’ve heard, lots of people invested in that venture. And some, or at least the President, parted with far more than $75,000.” I waited while Barbie blew her nose. “He supposedly invested $250,000.” She stared at me, clearly in the dark about where I was going. “My point is that since other people had far more to lose than your husband, it’s a mistake to assume the worst of him. In fact, the President is a much more likely murder suspect.”

  Barbie reached for my hand, and despite her need for comfort, I wasn’t inclined to give it up. I had never been a germaphobe, but she was on the verge of converting me. Yep, she was one snotty mess.

  “I’d like to believe you, Emme.” I grudgingly let her give my fingers a brief squeeze. “But I have an awful feeling about this. Besides, the President has money to burn. It wouldn’t make sense for him to do anything drastic. Not for $250,000, at any rate. But Tom blew everything we’ve worked for. Without that money, we have nothing.” She appeared terrified. “He was desperate.”

  After adding her snot-filled napkin to the growing pile on the prep table, she rose from her stool and plodded to the counter next to the refrigerator. There, she pulled a loaf of Rhubarb Bread from a clear plastic bag, grabbed a knife, and cut a huge chunk. “Now you know why I’ve gained weight over the past couple months. I’ve been using food to try and appease my fear about Tom.” She slathered on a generous amount of butter. “Every time my hips recommend I skip dessert, my angst overrules them.”

  I made a mental note to avoid the Rhubarb Bread.

  Chapter Eight

  BARBIE, WHY ARE YA EVEN HERE?” Margie asked. “Ya should be at home.”

  Barbie swallowed a mouthful of Rhubarb Bread. “I didn’t want to be there when Tom woke up. I’m not sure I want to be around him ever again.”

  Margie pointed a finger at her. “He needs ya.”

  “He was dishonest!” Once more Otto raised his head.

  “He wasn’t thinkin’ right,” Margie argued.

  “I don’t care!” Neither did Otto. He laid his head down and went back to sleep.

  Margie marched over to Barbie and grabbed her arms. “Listen here. I love ya, and I love Tom, and I want the two of ya to be happy. And together.”

  Barbie tipped her nose into the air. “Well, in the words of Mick Jagger, ‘You can’t always get what you want.’” She shook off Margie’s grip. “What’s more, I love you. And I promised to make you beautiful for your wedding. And that’s what I’m going to do.” She shoved the last of her bread into her mouth and talked around it. “Why ’ouldn’t I? You ’idn’t deceive me. You’re ’oyal and trustworthy and—”

  “Ya make me sound like a dog.”

  “A dog,” Barbie repeated the words as she strode to the front of the café to pour herself a cup of coffee. “Maybe I should get a dog,” she said upon her return. “At least then I’d have . . .” Her voice stalled as she settled her attention on Otto.

  “Oh, no!” I stepped between her and my four-legged buddy. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, Barbie, but Otto’s mine.”

  Margie leaned against the counter. “Although, if ya demand perfection, ya might hafta limit your companions to the four-legged variety because people make mistakes. And some of ’em are far worse than piddlin’ on the carpet.”

  “Exactly!” Barbie exclaimed. “Some mistakes can’t be forgiven.”

  “Oh, for land sake, there’s no rulebook for relationships. How ya react is all up to you.”

  “What are you saying, Margie? Am I supposed to pretend that everything’s ‘hunky-dory’?”

  I leaned in. “Barbie, we don’t know for sure what happened in the park.”

  “You’re right. But I do know that Tom blew all our savings. He admitted as much. Even so, Margie thinks I should act as if everything’s fine.”

  “No, sir-ree. I didn’t say that. But I will say ya have lots of options between actin’ like nothin’ happened and kickin’ your husband to the curb.” She waited for Barbie to meet her eyes. “I just wancha to keep that in mind. Ya don’t wanna go and do somethin’ ya might regret down the road.”

  “Yeah,” Barbie responded. “Whatever.”

  “Barbie!” Margie scolded.

  “Oh, all right. I’ll think about it.” Once again she wiped her nose with the hem of her tee-shirt. “For the next few hours, though, I’m not going to dwell on Tom or the mess he’s made of our marriage. Understand?” Margie and I nodded. “I’ll just highlight your hair—”

  “No!” Margie pulled her uneven hair out to the sides, Pippi Long-stocking style. “First, you’ll finish cuttin’ it. Right after you wash up.”

  Barbie attempted to paste on a smile, but it slipped right off. Because of her mood or the messy state of her face, I wasn’t sure which. “Okay, I’ll go wash. Then, I’ll cut your hair. And when I’m done, I’ll add highlights and paint your nails.”

  “Ya hafta paint Emme’s, too.”

  “No problem.”

  Margie wagged a finger in front of Barbie’s face. “But it’s a no-go on the bikini wax.”

  “Fine,” she replied. “I don’t care.”

  “Yah, ya do.”

  “Well, maybe a little, but not enough to fight about it.”

  “Emme doesn’t want one, either.”

  The repeated sound of my name had me tuning back in after taking a short break to ponder what Margie had said about relationships. Since I was a black-and-white thinker, her advice to Barbie that she consider forgiving Tom was hard for me to understand or accept. Sure, I’d messed up with Randy, and he had forgiven me, but our relationship wasn’t as serious as Barbie and Tom’s. We hadn’t taken any solemn vows. They had. That made Tom’s behavior far more egregious, didn’t it?

  Totally confused, I tabled my notions for another day, when I had more time to think. Presently, I had other things to do, the first being to come clean with Barbie about my relationship with Boo-Boo. She was my friend and deserved to know the truth. Granted, my association with the guy wasn’t directly tied to her husband or his actions, but I still felt somewhat responsible for their trouble. After all, I couldn’t help but suspect that Boo-Boo’s primary motivation for participating in the wind farm project was to reconnect with me.

  Yes, that sounded egotistical, but why else did the man get involved in a business venture way up here? Why else did he repeatedly drop by the Hot Dish Heaven Café? Strangers didn’t just happen upon this town or the café. Don’t forget, it was on the far side of “no man’s land.” Located at the intersection of Highway 75 and the edge of the world.

  “Barbie?” Being completely honest with her would be difficult, but I had no choice. I had to divulge everything. If she hated me afterwards, I’d simply have to deal with it. “Well, you may not want to be so quick to include me in your spa day.” I swallowed over the lump in my throat. “Umm . . . in truth, after I’m done explai
ning what I know about Owen Bair, you may never wish to speak to me again.”

  With that ominous declaration, I repeated the entire Boo-Boo Bair saga, starting with how we met and ending with what I knew about the murder. I left nothing out, not even the Chicago hotel debacle.

  For her part, Barbie worked on Margie’s hair while she listened, stopping only occasionally to offer up an “Oh, my God,” or “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  When I finished, I held my breath and waited patiently for her to say something. Okay, that wasn’t true. I wasn’t the least bit patient. Desperate for her to speak, I twisted my hair around my fingers and chewed my thumbnail.

  Either Barbie failed to notice my discomfort, or she enjoyed watching me sweat. In any event, she took her time with Margie’s hair. She checked it over, snipping here and puffing there before setting her comb and scissors on the table and handing Margie a mirror. It was then that my hair twisting and nail chewing gave way to tongue clicking. And it was that irritating sound that finally prompted her to look my way.

  “Okay, you used to go out with the guy,” she said, stepping directly in front of me and gripping my wrists. Right away I feared she was about to shake me to death. “That doesn’t mean you’re responsible for him being up here. And it’s certainly not your fault he did what he did.” Apparently, she wasn’t going to do me in, after all. With that realization, I released the breath I’d been holding and made an effort to relax. “Believe it or not, Emme, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

  “Uff-da!” Margie huffed. “That’s kinda harsh.”

  Barbie let go of me. “I only meant that it’s not difficult to see how Boo-Boo—or Owen Bair or whatever his name was—ended up around here. And, most likely, it had nothing to do with Emme. But she’s going to blame herself because that’s what she does. And she’s got to stop it.” She swung my way. “You’ve got to stop it.”

  She then continued. “Let’s consider the situation logically. There’s money to be made around here. And it stands to reason that a big-time investor like Greg Rogers would come up with a plan to get some of it for himself. It also makes sense that he’d hire people who could help him.” She poked me in the arm. “You said yourself Owen Bair was handsome and charismatic. And that, along with his background as a member of the Twins, made him the perfect pitch man. Who better to entice folks to part with their hard-earned money? Hell, people like my husband were probably thrilled to give the guy whatever he wanted just to say they’d spent time with him. That they were ‘friends.’” She added the air quotes.