A Potluck of Murder and Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  “Sure, I’m familiar with the wind farm. But, as for an investigation . . .” Her words died on her lips.

  “They figure it’s a scam,” the weasel went on to explain. “A fraud scheme of some kind.”

  “How do you know?”

  He eyed her suggestively. “As I said, I know lots of things. And some of them would make you howl at the moon.”

  That did it. I couldn’t sit there any longer. The President was guilty. And while obtaining corroborating evidence would have been nice, I wasn’t about to get sick while Barbie attempted to do it. “We’ve got to go.” I stood up and grabbed one of her arms.

  The bartender grabbed the other. “Wait a minute. She promised that if I—”

  “She’ll have to take care of you another time. Right now we need to leave. We . . . umm . . . have an appointment she forgot about.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” The weasel let her go but started around the bar. “I had a deal with her.”

  I hot-footed it toward the exit, dragging Barbie behind me. “And she’ll make good on it.” I pushed the door open, shielding my eyes from the sunlight reflecting off the snow. “It just won’t be now.” I propelled her outside in front of me.

  “But, if not now, when?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “How about tonight? It’s New Year’s Eve,” he reminded us as the door slammed shut in his face. “I could give her free booze and a night she wouldn’t soon forget.”

  “No matter how hard she tried,” I muttered while pushing Barbie along the sidewalk. “Every time she downed a dose of penicillin, she’d be reminded of her time with you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  A S WE DROVE DOWN THE ROAD, I yelled, “I’m going to kill him!”

  Startled, Barbie bumped her head against the passenger window. “Kill who?”

  “Whom.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Randy.”

  “Why would you kill him? I thought you’d be eager to tell him what you figured out about the President.”

  “That was before I discovered he knew Tiny was a cop, yet he didn’t say a darn word about it to me. He just let me go on and on about how he should check him out.”

  Barbie twisted in my direction. “What?” Her indignation was evident. “You asked Randy to investigate Tiny?”

  Oops. “Well . . . I only mentioned that Tiny was new around the bar, and he . . . asked you a lot about Tom.”

  My explanation didn’t appease her. “Emme, I already explained why he likely did that.” She pointed her finger at me. I saw it in my peripheral vision. “I don’t appreciate you going behind my back. You’re supposed to be my friend.”

  I took my eyes off the road long enough to remind her, “I am your friend. And because I’m your friend, I won’t let anyone hurt you if I can help it.”

  She drilled holes in me until I blinked.

  “Barbie, he’s a cop, and he didn’t tell you. Isn’t that a bigger transgression than my asking Randy to ensure your safety?”

  “I can hardly believe it.”

  “That I’d be concerned about your safety?”

  “No. That Tiny’s a police officer.”

  “You didn’t have a clue?”

  “None whatsoever. When I knew him back in the Twin Cities, he was a perpetual student who worked construction.”

  She went momentarily mute, but I practically heard her mind at work. “Was he only being nice to me last night to get information about Tom?”

  “I’m not much of a sleuth, Barbie. But, from what I could tell, he was really into you.”

  “Now I’m doubly glad I didn’t go home with him.”

  “He probably would have fessed up before anything . . . well, anything of consequence happened.”

  “Maybe.”

  At Hawkyards Corner, I turned left and headed west on Highway 175, my anger with Randy still bubbling. “Do you think he lied to me about the President, too?”

  “Huh?”

  The sun reflected off the snow-covered fields that lined the highway, and I pulled my visor down to guard against the glare. “Did Randy tell me the President heard Boo-Boo and Tom quarreling even though he knew it wasn’t true?”

  “Why on earth would he do that?”

  “To keep me from getting more involved in the investigation.”

  “Emme, he made a point of promising he’d never keep you from doing what you felt was necessary for your job or your friends.”

  “Maybe he lied about that, too. Maybe he’s lied about everything, including his feelings for me.”

  Barbie groaned. “He hasn’t lied about his feelings, and he didn’t lie about the President. He said the President ‘told him’ he saw Owen Bair and Tom arguing. That’s completely different.”

  “No, it’s not. You’re just splitting hairs.”

  She leaned her head against the passenger window. “And you’re feeling insecure, and it’s putting you in a bad mood.”

  “I’m not in a bad mood.”

  “Yes, you are. I know a lousy mood when I see one. I’ve been in one myself for two months now.”

  “Well, you’re wrong about me.”

  “Yep, you’re in a bad mood, and you’re itching for a fight.”

  “No, I’m not. I don’t like fighting. Remember?”

  She edged toward me. “You don’t like when others fight. But when you get pissed or feel uncertain about things, you don’t mind mixing it up.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is. You also insist on getting in the last word.”

  “Do not.”

  “See?”

  “What?”

  I LEFT BARBIE AT HER HOUSE. Following lunch with Randy, I’d pick her up, and we’d go back to Kennedy and get dressed for the wedding. Randy couldn’t attend the ceremony because of the investigation, which was just fine with me since I was furious with him. As for Barbie’s husband, he was with his AA sponsor, which was okay with her since she wasn’t even sure she wanted to stay married to the guy. That left the two of us to be each other’s dates.

  After carefully driving through the rut-filled parking lot at the bowling alley, I found a spot for my car and hurried inside the corrugated metal building.

  As soon as I walked through the door, my senses were assaulted by the crash of balls against pins, the smell of sweaty bowling shoes, and the sight of Randy Ryden sitting sideways in a booth, his back against the wall, his eyes trained on me. He was incredibly handsome in his neatly pressed uniform, and the only thing that kept me from jumping his bones right then and there was my intense desire to thrash him.

  He stood as I crossed the room, everyone in the place gawking at me, the stranger meeting with the hunky deputy. He gave me a one-arm shoulder hug before ushering me into the bench seat across from him. “You hungry?” he asked.

  “Not really.” Normally, I was ready to eat at any time. But, at that particular moment, I couldn’t get past my ire to locate my appetite.

  “The food here is great.”

  “That may be . . .”

  Apparently, my wrath was palpable. “What’s wrong, Emme?”

  A waitress set a glass of water in front of me. “You ready to order?”

  I put on a happy face. “Do you have grilled chicken salad?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll have that. No dressing. No bread.”

  She turned to Randy. “Bring me a burger and fries, will ya, Allie?”

  “Sure.” Allie was clearly tickled that Randy knew her name, and it took all my restraint to keep from doing a major eye roll.

  Once she left, he asked, “Why are you eating so light? It’s not like you have to worry about your weight. You look great.”

  Much to the disappointment of my inner feminist, as well as my inner grouch, I smiled to myself. I couldn’t help it. I enjoyed compliments. Even so, on the outside, I maintained my ice-cold manner.

  “I’ve got the feeling I’ve done something wrong.
Is that it, Emme?”

  “Oh, you’re good, Randy. You should be an investigator or something.” Yep, I could do sarcasm with the best of them.

  “Okay, out with it. What did I do?”

  I bent across the table and presented him with a first-class scowl. “You lied to me. You knew Tiny was a cop, and you didn’t tell me.”

  He eased against the back of his seat. “Is that all?”

  “Is that all? What are you implying? Lying to me is all right?”

  He angled toward me and whispered, “I didn’t lie.”

  I responded in a similar fashion, although my whisper was tinged with a fair amount of hissing. “What would you call it, then?”

  “Emme, I met Tiny for the first time this morning. At our meeting in the sheriff’s office.” I must have looked as if I didn’t believe him because he attempted to convince me. “Remember, I’ve been out of the loop. I’ve been in North Dakota and the Twin Cities the last several weeks.” He flicked his hand. “But that’s beside the point. I couldn’t have divulged his identity, anyhow.”

  “Why not? Even the bartender at the Maverick knows he’s a cop.”

  Randy fidgeted, then mumbled, “He’s not exactly a cop.”

  I glowered at him until he confessed, “He’s a federal agent.”

  “A federal agent? Tiny’s a federal agent?”

  “And he’s working undercover.”

  “What?” My voice was so shrill I was pretty sure it had reached “only dogs can hear this” range.

  “Yeah, the feds have been investigating the wind-farm operation for a while now. They suspect it’s a sham. Tiny was at our meeting because we’re sharing information about the two cases—the murder and what they believe to be financial fraud.”

  “What’s going on, Randy?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t you dare brush me off like so much dust. Under the circumstances, I deserve to know—”

  “No, you don’t, Emme. Not really.”

  He must have seen my hurt because he began again. “I’m sorry. I realize Owen Bair meant a lot to you at one time, but . . .”

  The waitress returned with our food, putting a temporary end to our argument.

  As she set the plates in front of us, she asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you?” A glimpse at her and I discovered she was directing her inquiry to Randy alone.

  “No, thank you,” he replied, and she left, a grin stretched all the way across her face.

  “Doesn’t that get tiring?” I was more than a tad irritable.

  “What?”

  “Having women fall all over themselves around you. Doesn’t it bug you?” It did me.

  He lifted the top of his hamburger bun and squirted catsup across the patty. “They don’t ‘fall all over themselves.’”

  “Yes, they do.”

  He put the bun back and lifted the burger with both hands. “They merely appreciate that I’m friendly.” He managed a huge bite. “You should try it.” He considered his sandwich. “Not my burger. Being friendly.”

  I stabbed some lettuce with my fork. “Oh, shut up.”

  He chuckled, and I chewed. Really hard. My poor lettuce didn’t stand a chance.

  After a few minutes of nursing my bruised ego, I set my fork on the corner of my plate. “Fine. I get it. You can’t share the details of your investigation. Even though I’m one of the good guys. Even though I’d never blab. Even though that weasel of a bartender knows everything.”

  “He doesn’t know ‘everything.’ In fact, he wasn’t told all that much.”

  With a stop-sign hand, I kept him from saying anything else. “I get it. It bothers me. But I get it.”

  “That’s mighty big of you.” There was a twinkle in his eyes.

  He tossed a couple French fries into his mouth and spoke around them. “Now, explain how you ’ound out ’bout the ’artender.”

  I huffed so hard I felt my nostrils flare. “Really? You expect me to come clean with you when you hardly told me a thing?”

  “Yah, Emme, I do. Don’t forget, I’m a law enforcement officer, and this is an official criminal investigation.”

  I glared at him for at least five seconds. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you.” Even so, I was determined to take my time just to bug him. I chewed slowly and swallowed carefully. Then, I dabbed my lips with my napkin before returning it to my lap and smoothing out all the wrinkles. “Well,” I said with a fair amount of pique after noting that he didn’t appear the least bit annoyed by my stalling tactics, “Barbie and I stopped by the Maverick earlier today. It wasn’t busy, so we visited with the guy.”

  “And the murder just happened to come up during the course of your conversation?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to—”

  “Oh, don’t blame him. You know how persuasive Barbie can be.”

  Randy mumbled something about the bartender, cocaine, and potential jail time in the guy’s future.

  I didn’t pursue it. I really didn’t care. See, I was still stinging because of Randy’s refusal to share particulars about Boo-Boo’s murder case. What’s more, I was nervous about confronting him about the President. And, on top of all that, he hadn’t even offered me a single fry.

  Chapter Eighteen

  D ECIDING TO GO AHEAD and rip the bandage off, so to speak, I blurted, “Randy, why weren’t you honest with me about the President?”

  “Huh?”

  “He lied when he told you what he supposedly saw outside the bar the day Boo-Boo was killed.”

  Randy plated the remainder of his sandwich and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “How did you discover that?”

  “It was something Janice said. And Burr mentioned the same thing this morning.”

  “Where did you see—”

  “In the Maverick.” I picked at my chicken. “According to him, the President came into the bar well after Tom. And that’s when I remembered that Janice had said the same thing.”

  “Emme, I wasn’t dishonest with you. I only discovered the real story myself this morning, at my meeting.” He sipped his water, ice chunks clattering against the side of the glass. “I questioned the President at the bachelor party on Thursday night, and he was none too happy about it. He said he saw Tom and Owen Bair arguing in the parking lot next to the bar just before he went inside. But, beyond that, he wouldn’t tell me much, although he did warn me he’d make sure the sheriff put me in my place. Said I had no business harassing innocent folks, while Tom Jenson ran around loose.” He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking out here and there. “It wasn’t until this morning’s meeting that I learned Tom had actually entered the bar an hour or so ahead of the guy.”

  “Does that mean Tom was in the bar at the time of Boo-Boo’s death?”

  “It seems that way. Although we’re working to get confirmation.”

  “And the President?”

  “Like I said, he came in well after the time of the murder.”

  “So, as I thought, he’s the murderer, and you arrested him, right?”

  “No, but I did interview him again.”

  “And?”

  “He stuck to his story. He insisted that anyone who said Tom was there ahead of him was mistaken.”

  “And you—”

  “I’m sure he’s lying. One person might get something like that wrong. But we have several people who witnessed Tom enter the place ahead of him.”

  I recalled that Tiny had left the bar via the back exit right after Tom had made his way through the front door. “Including a federal agent.”

  Randy bobbed his head. “Including a federal agent.”

  “Then why didn’t you arrest the guy? Like I said, he’s obviously the murderer.”

  “I’m not so sure, Emme. And, even if I were, I’d need—”

  “More evidence.”

  He nodded.

  “What are you looking fo
r?” As soon as the words left my mouth, the answer became obvious. “Bruising. Did you check him for bruising?”

  Randy exhaled wearily. “He was wearing a sleeveless tee-shirt when I got to his place this forenoon.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. No sign of a fight.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I do know what bruises look like.”

  “Well, you don’t have to get huffy.”

  He sighed. “Sorry. I’m just frustrated by our lack of progress.”

  I sagged against the back of my seat. “I’m frustrated, too. I was positive the President was the killer.” I raised my fingers, one by one, as I ticked off the points to back up my assertion. “First, he had a lot to lose financially because of the wind farm project. Second, he couldn’t stand Boo-Boo. Third, he lied about what he saw outside the bar. Fourth, he lied about when he entered the bar. And, fifth, he’s an ass.”

  “None of which automatically brands him a murderer. That’s why it’s never good to zero in on one person in the early stages of an investigation.”

  “I didn’t zero . . .” No point in finishing. We both knew better.

  “You have to follow the actual trail of evidence, Emme. See where it leads. And, in this instance, it doesn’t appear to lead to the President.”

  Yep, no doubt about it, I was no good at investigative work, despite what Barbie said. “No, Randy, you need to follow the trail of evidence.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m done.”

  He scanned my plate. It was piled high with lettuce and slices of grilled chicken. “But you’ve hardly tasted your food.”

  “No. I mean I’m done messing around in Boo-Boo’s murder. What’s the point? This entire time I’ve been concentrating on the wrong guy. Obviously, I have no clue what I’m doing.”

  He squeezed my hand. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  I withdrew my hand. “I thought you’d be thrilled I was backing away from police business.”

  “Not if you’re doing it because you think you’re incompetent or something.”

  “Well, I am. I’m a rotten sleuth.”