A Potluck of Murder and Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  Barbie bent her head, her features displaying faux innocence. “I was only saying . . .”

  I knew exactly what she was saying. And doing. Nevertheless, I felt my resolve crumble.

  While I doubted that I owed Boo-Boo anything, I wanted to support Barbie, even if she was delusional to presume we could find “the real killer” in a bar in Lake Bronson. What’s more, in spite of what my common sense said, I couldn’t kowtow to a bully, and that’s what Sheriff Halverson was. A big bully. And kowtowing was exactly what I’d be doing if I avoided the investigation solely because he had ordered me to steer clear. Finally, there was a little part of me that wondered if this might be the case that finally changed my career path. Propelled me from lowly errand girl to actual investigative reporter. “Oh, what the heck,” I grumbled. “I’ll go with you for a quick look around. But that’s it. That’s all I’m doing.”

  “I’m not asking for anything more.”

  Barbie’s eyes showed a triumphant gleam, whereas mine, I’m sure, reflected wariness, not only because of our ridiculous plan but because of the impact that plan might have on my fragile relationship with Deputy Ryden. “Randy,” I said under my breath, “please understand.”

  Randy, hell. You’ve just declared war on the sheriff and a coldblooded killer.

  Part II

  Make Sure You Offer a Little Bit of Everything

  Chapter Ten

  AFTER WALKING AND FEEDING OTTO, I gobbled down some Meatball Hot Dish for my own supper. The masking tape on the cover of the casserole dish indicated the meal was made by Bernice Erdahl of Morris, Minnesota. I didn’t know how it got way up here, near the border of Canada and North Dakota, but I was glad it did. It was great!

  When done eating, I changed into black jeans and ankle boots along with a gray fitted sweater and a short quilted jacket, maroon in color. Barbie insisted that we look “somewhat threatening” when visiting the bar, but this was as “threatening” as my outfits got. To compensate, I applied an extra layer of mascara as well as some of the eye liner Barbie had given me. I did my utmost to follow her earlier instructions but ended up poking myself in the eye three times. To offset my watery eyes, I bent my head and shook out my hair, going for an air of “don’t mess with me.” When I peered in the mirror, though, the person staring back strongly resembled Roseanne Roseannadanna. Only way more pitiful.

  With a grunt of disgust, I turned away, kissed Otto’s wet nose, and lumbered downstairs, entering the kitchen just in time to see Margie exit the parking lot behind the building. She was on her way to the wedding rehearsal. Afterwards, she and John were hosting a private dinner for her family and the wedding party at Hasting’s Landing, a restaurant in Drayton, just across the Red River.

  As soon as she left, Barbie arrived.

  I should have known better. I figured she’d dress down, considering her funk and all. Yet, there she was in full makeup, her lipstick and eye shadow applied with a trowel, the colors perfectly matching her cranberry hair, which was now spiked with gel.

  In most instances, the look would have been considered “beyond the pale,” but in comparison to what she wore, her hair and makeup were subdued. See, she donned black leggings, knee-high boots, and a black leather bustier with matching jacket, neither covering much of her chest or her rear. Yep, she could have been auditioning for “Betty Boop Does the Hell’s Angels.”

  “Thank God,” I gushed. “For a minute, I was worried you’d look outlandish!”

  “Hold the sarcasm. I’ve been to the Maverick. I know what they expect.”

  She had a point. And it pricked at me. Or maybe it was the studded metal bands around the ankles of her boots.

  I INSISTED ON DRIVING, and right away Barbie objected, arguing that she had a roomy SUV, while I drove, in her words, “a measly Ford Focus.” But I had ridden with her, and it had been a life-threatening experience, though I’d never admit that to her. Rather, I convinced her she had to serve as navigator since I wasn’t familiar with the area. Lame, I know, and I suspected she only went along with it because of the aforementioned funk. Well, that and her bustier. Odds were it had cut off much of her oxygen supply, causing her brain to operate at less than optimum capacity. Granted, that raised a host of concerns regarding the evening ahead, but I did my best to tamp them down. It was too late for second guesses.

  As soon as we were on our way, Barbie demanded that I switch on the heater, prompting me to remind her that it would take a while for the hot air to blow. In turn, she ragged on about my “worthless, piece-of-junk car.” Midway through her tirade, I interrupted to admit I was wrong. The “hot air” was already churning. At that, she stuck out her tongue. I snickered. And we traveled on down the road.

  We drove several miles without saying a word. Barbie hugged her scantily clad torso and stared out the passenger window, while I fixed my eyes on the road, the headlights illuminating the patched veins that crisscrossed the asphalt and the dirty snow padding the shoulders. We met very few cars, and I spotted even fewer farmyard lights.

  Inside the car, the space between us grew heavy with the conversation we weren’t having, and when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I said, “Everything all right at home?”

  “I don’t know if it’ll ever be all right.” She left that sentence hanging for some time before she added, “He supposedly called his doctor and has an appointment first thing Monday morning in Fargo.”

  “That’s good.”

  “We’ll see.”

  More silence. Too much silence. I flicked on the radio but got nothing but static. I hit the scan button, and it went all the way around the dial without locating a station. I turned it off, adjusted the rearview mirror, and checked the dashboard gauges. Then, I hesitantly asked, “What about in the meantime?”

  Barbie slapped her thighs. “Exactly. A lot of damage can be done before Monday. Yet, he claims he’ll be fine. He’s going to stay with his AA sponsor. Intends to hit a meeting every day.”

  I didn’t want to be pushy, but I had additional questions, and since I was risking my life on her behalf by going bar hopping in search of a killer, I decided I had the right to ask them. Still, I felt awkward, as if prying, which, I suppose, I was. “Well . . . umm . . . did Tom say any more about . . . you know?” I maintained my concentration on the road, even a glimpse in her direction seemingly too intrusive.

  “No,” she said, drawing out the “O.” “He never even saw your Boo-Boo.”

  “He wasn’t ‘mine,’” I muttered, getting mighty sick of making that point.

  “Whatever.” She fidgeted, and I was pretty sure her unease no longer had anything to do with the temperature in the car. “The problem is, he doesn’t have much memory of the last couple days.” She hesitated, as if debating whether or not to continue. In the end, she did. “Emme, he has bruises.”

  My breath caught in my throat, forcing several moments to lapse before I responded. And, when I did, it took the form of another question. “Did you ask him about them?”

  “Yeah. He insists he got them falling down.”

  “What do you think?”

  She leaned against the head rest and examined the roof of the car. “I can’t accept that he hurt anybody.” The words were spoken like a mantra.

  WHEN WE WALKED into the Maverick Bar, I had to steal a moment to let my eyes adjust. Afterwards, I wished I hadn’t. Margie was right. The place was rough looking. Deer heads lined the wall, some with Christmas lights strung around their antlers, while leather-clad biker types hunched over the bar, none of them decorated for the holidays. The entire space consisted of just a half dozen booths and a dozen bar stools, with a yard-stick worth of room between them. That narrow aisle led to the rear exit, my focus already on it.

  Behind us, the door squeaked shut, sounding like it was scoffing at me for having no semblance of a plan. But that wasn’t my fault. I had insisted this operation required some “orchestration,” but Barbie had argued that she’d “never been mistaken for
Paul Schafer or Les Brown or any of those guys.” I guess that was her way of telling me she didn’t consider our lack of preparation a problem. Then, again, she also considered it a-okay to visit a bar, looking like the love child of Victoria Secret and Sara Lee.

  “As I live and breathe!” a monster of a man at the far end of the bar yelled in our direction as he lumbered into the aisle, the wood floor shaking as his boot heels drummed against it. I swear he was eight feet tall and four hundred pounds. Well, that might have been an exaggeration, but he definitely shopped the Big and Tall Store at the outlaw mall. He wore a black tee-shirt, the sleeves ripped out at the shoulder seams, a skull and crossbones emblazoned across the front. His jeans sagged and a silver chain looped from his back pocket to what I presumed was his belt, hidden beneath a slight paunch. As for his hair, it was dark and wavy and practically reached his shoulders.

  As he drew near, I felt compelled to scream for help, but my mouth was too dry to get the job done. That’s right. Yelling for help was pointless, as was bolting out the back exit. Sasquatch, you see, was blocking my path.

  After a nervous review of my options, I concluded I really had none other than easing out the same way we’d come in, and I discreetly tugged on Barbie’s jacket, praying she’d understand my intentions. I then shuffled backwards—right into a brick wall—a wall that breathed and smelled of whiskey. Shit!

  Sasquatch slogged closer, his voice rumbling like thunder. “Well, if it isn’t Barbie Bennington.”

  Huh?

  “You know perfectly well I’m Barbie Jenson now.” My friend’s tone gave nothing away. I couldn’t tell if she was scared or enraged, and I was too frightened to twist my head to gauge her reaction.

  “What in the hell are ya doin’ here?” Sasquatch demanded.

  “Me?” Barbie screeched, sending my heart rate into double time.

  “Why on earth are you here, Tiny?”

  Before he could answer, she propelled herself into his arms, but rather than beat him about the head and neck, she wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him soundly. The whiskey guy behind me—the one built like a brick wall—nudged me aside, where I remained, while “Tiny” twirled Barbie in the air.

  “I live here, you big oaf,” she teased once he’d set her down. “Well, not right here. In Hallock. What about you?”

  He studied her with his intense, cobalt-blue eyes. “I’m on a road construction crew. Staying just up the road, at the Motor Inn in Karlstad. Been here a couple weeks.” He swept his hair off his forehead. “I can’t believe it’s you. I haven’t seen you in—”

  “Forever!” Barbie squealed, a real smile taking shape.

  She grabbed my arm and dragged me forward. “Emme, this is a dear friend of mine. We were . . . umm . . . close years ago, when I was single and living in the Twin Cities.” The bar’s lighting was poor, yet I couldn’t miss the flush mottling her neck. “Tiny, this is a new friend of mine, Emme Malloy. She’s a newspaper reporter from Minneapolis. She’s up here for a wedding.”

  “Not yours, I hope.”

  Barbie swatted him on the arm, across his serpent tattoo. “I’m still with Tom.”

  He eased his massive mitt around the back of her neck and steered her toward him. “Too bad. I was hoping you might have grown tired of him and were ready to give me another chance.” He quickly surveyed the room. “He’s not here tonight, is he?”

  “No.” Barbie stepped out of his grasp and swatted him again. “You’re incorrigible!”

  Tiny offered up a full belly laugh before easing his focus in my direction. “It’s nice to meet you, Emme Malloy.”

  I gripped his hand, temporarily losing most of mine among his fingers. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, too . . . Tiny.” And, trust me, I meant every word. With him around, no one would dare bother us.

  “What kind of news are you after way up here?” He sounded genuinely interested.

  “Nothing exciting. I work for the Food section of the Minneapolis paper.”

  With those words, his interest naturally vanished, and he refocused on my friend. “You look great, Barbie. Just great!” He once more allowed his eyes to travel from her head to her feet, taking a leisurely respite around her breasts. They were heaving over the top of her bustier.

  She pressed her hand against his barrel chest. “Oh, no, I don’t, Tiny. I’m getting old and fat.”

  He growled, the sound coming from deep inside. I didn’t care to speculate as to where exactly. “You look just right to me. Now, come on over here and tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  WRAPPING HIS ARM AROUND HER, he ushered her to an empty booth, and I followed, the proverbial third wheel. He shouted our drink orders to the bartender before he and Barbie began reliving their glory days, unabashedly flirting with each other the entire time.

  I avoided watching them, choosing, instead, to listen to the country music playing on the jukebox while scrutinizing the other men in the room. Remember, we were on a mission. We were in search of a guy with bruises. Someone I expected to be as elusive as the one-armed man.

  As I said, the bar was dark to begin with, and now that we were tucked in the back corner, it was nearly impossible to see. Thus, I determined I had no choice but to develop a weak bladder, allowing for repeated trips past everyone seated at the bar as I went to and from the bathroom. But that didn’t help, either. I didn’t detect anyone with injuries.

  I did, however, tick off two biker mamas who looked mean enough to eat their young. They presumed I was traipsing back and forth in an effort to entice “their men.” They let me know their opinion of my “plan” after cornering me between the tampon and condom dispensers, opposite the bathroom sink. I assured them they had nothing to worry about. I wasn’t at all attracted to the men in the bar, which led them to ask, “Why? You too good for the guys ’round here?

  I might have mumbled, “Maybe.”

  They didn’t appreciate that and demonstrated their displeasure by yanking my hair and shoving me against the wall. They also warned me to “get the hell out of Lake Bronson and never come back.” I’m not kidding. That’s what they said.

  As soon as they left the bathroom, I slid to the floor, my legs and bravado too wobbly to support me. I stayed there, on the cracked tile, through a Loretta Lynn song about some floozy who wasn’t woman enough to take her man. And, when it was over, I gathered up what was left of my dignity and scurried back to our booth to inform Tiny and Barbie that I was leaving.

  Barbie whined that she wasn’t ready to go, providing Tiny with the perfect opportunity to propose that he take her home later. Given her current vulnerability and his extreme attentiveness, which included caressing her neck nonstop, I didn’t think that was a smart idea. But she averted her eyes, so I was unable to let her know my opinion without voicing it straight out, and I wasn’t up to doing that.

  At that moment in time, I couldn’t have pieced together a coherent argument for why she should leave if I’d been given a two-sentence head start. Of course, my fragile state of mind was wholly due to the bathroom bullies, who now glared at me from their stools at the bar. I’m not ashamed to admit that their scowls sent my mental wherewithal packing, and I hurried to follow it right out the door.

  As I started my car, I caught a glimpse of the Legion sign across the street, beckoning folks in for a drink. “You’ll have to get by without me,” I muttered, “and Barbie, too.” I was more than a little disappointed in my friend. But, what could I do?

  I backed out of my parking spot in hopes I’d remember my way to Kennedy. Deciding I was in no mood to get lost, I applied the brakes, pulled out my phone, and hit the GPS icon.

  As I punched in my destination, I heard a thump against the back window and conjured up images of the bathroom trolls. They had come to finish me off!

  Chapter Eleven

  LET’S GO,” BARBIE SAID as she slid into the passenger seat.

  Relieved it was her and nobody else, I pointed my car toward t
he outskirts of town and hit the accelerator.

  We were silent as we made our way down the highway. I watched the road, and Barbie watched for deer, and together we shivered as we listened to the radio. The “borderland station” was now coming in loud and clear, intermixing music with farm news for southern Manitoba and the northern Red River Valley of North Dakota and Minnesota. As Willie Nelson and Sheryl Crow sang, “Today I Started Loving You Again,” my breathing eased, partly because the car was warming up and the music was comforting, but mostly because we were putting distance between us and the Maverick Bar.

  When the song ended, Barbie punched me in the arm.

  “Hey!” I shouted, breaking my concentration on the road long enough to give her a withering look.

  “Whose dumb idea was that?”

  “Going to the Maverick? I believe it was yours.”

  She scrunched her eyes shut, as if attempting to hide from what she had done.

  “So,” I said, deciding to address the elephant in the room or, more accurately, the giant in the bar, “what’s the story with you and Tiny?”

  Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly, like a fish out of water. Finally, she muttered, “Shit. I can’t . . . Well . . . See, with all the trouble Tom and I have been having lately, I haven’t felt very . . . you know . . . desirable.” She tugged on her bustier. “I’m not making excuses. I’m just saying.” Another tug. “As you probably gathered, Tiny and I were hot and heavy years ago. I was shocked to see him in the bar. It’s been so long. Yet, it was easy to slip back. It was as if no time had passed.” She blew out a weary breath. “I won’t lie, Emme. Staying with him tonight would have felt good. And I almost did it. But I would have hated myself tomorrow.” She slapped her hands against her knees. “Damn that husband of mine for making such a mess of things!”

  “I’m glad you came to your senses. I only wish it had been earlier.” With those words, I launched into the story of my adventure in the women’s bathroom.