A Potluck of Murder and Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  “I don’t know about that. Besides, sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good. And when it comes to solving murder cases, you’re damn lucky.”

  I was pretty sure I’d just been dissed, but since I had no desire to debate my ineptness, I let it slide. “I’ll just tick off people if I continue. I’ll probably make the sheriff angry enough to throw me in jail or, quite possibly, cause you trouble on the job.”

  “Again, don’t worry about the sheriff. He’s not about to do anything to you, despite his threats. Remember, you have an alibi.” He offered a sympathetic smile. “And since he can’t let the murder go unresolved, he won’t sideline any of his deputies, me included. He can’t afford to. He needs all of us hard at work.”

  “And what about him, Randy? What exactly is he doing other than bugging me?”

  “Not a hell of a lot. See, Sheriff Halverson’s not much of an investigator. He claims he’s more of a ‘big picture guy.’”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means he’s all talk. That’s why he and the President get along so well. Though, as of right now, the sheriff seems to be avoiding his friend.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “I guess the President phoned the office several times this morning, but the sheriff made excuses not to take any of the calls. From what Ed told me, the sheriff’s afraid the President might cause him more harm than good this election cycle, so he’s decided to keep his distance.”

  “But how can he cause trouble? According to you, he’s innocent.”

  “Emme, he doesn’t appear to be guilty of murder, but I never said he was ‘innocent.’”

  It took a few moments for me to figure out what he meant. “You’re referring to that whole fraud thing, huh?”

  “Yep.” He fiddled with the edge of his plate. “Given the President’s push to get that economic development money, the feds are certain he’s involved.”

  “They don’t believe he intended to use those funds on the wind farm project?”

  “No. They think he either wanted the money for himself or to split with his co-conspirators.”

  “But, if that’s the case, why would the sheriff avoid the guy? If he hung out with him, he could learn things from him. Things that could help solve the fraud case, if not the murder, too.”

  Randy twisted about. “Well . . .” He snatched the salt and pepper shakers and played around with them until he accidently spilled salt all over what was left of his French fries.

  “Randy, what aren’t you telling me?” All those fries are ruined!

  He pushed his plate away. “Well, the President’s supposedly running around with the sheriff’s wife. At least that’s what Ed told me this morning.”

  While Randy wasn’t much for gossip, I had no problem with it. Consequently, I edged to the front of my seat. “I didn’t realize the sheriff was married.”

  “No one understands exactly how it happened. But, yeah, he’s married.”

  I flashed him a look meant to encourage him to continue talking, and he did, although he was clearly uncomfortable. “A year ago or so the sheriff brought Mitzie back with him after his two-week vacation on Gull Lake. He introduced her as his bride, and that was that. She’s from Brainerd. Her family has money. And, apparently, she covets the finer things in life.”

  “Then, what’s she doing chasing after the President?”

  He shook his head. “While you might consider him a pig, the President has lots of money and a fair amount of clout around here.”

  “Well, he gives me the heebee-jeebies.”

  Randy flashed a half smile in spite of himself. “Anyhow, from what I gather, Mitzie hasn’t been happy since she got here. A couple months back she supposedly informed the sheriff she wouldn’t help him finance his upcoming campaign because she wanted out of this ‘hellhole.’”

  “And, until then, she’d be hooking up with the President?” That made no sense, regardless of how unhappy she was.

  “Emme, in spite of his best efforts, the President got nowhere with Margie’s sister. Vivian made it clear she wasn’t going to leave her husband for him. So, he supposedly moved on . . . to Mitzie.”

  Randy retrieved his wallet, yanked a five-dollar bill from it, and tucked it under his water glass. “Ready to go?” He grabbed his jacket, and we slid from our seats.

  Along the way to the cash register, he stopped at the dessert counter. “Care for anything for the road? The desserts here are really good.”

  I silently debated buying one or two items to share with Barbie. But, when a voice in my head rightfully claimed I had no intention of sharing and another reminded me of how poorly I’d been eating, I grumbled, “No, I’ll pass.”

  Right away I felt deprived and more than a little depressed. Then I remembered there was pie waiting for me at the café. Margie had insisted I try some, and the thought of doing so inspired a 180-degree change in my disposition. “There’s Rhubarb Custard Pie at Hot Dish Heaven. If I have time before the wedding, I’ll have a piece of that, instead. Margie claims it’s the best.”

  “Who made it?”

  “It’s Rosemary Cooney’s recipe.”

  Randy smacked his lips. “Margie’s right. She makes great rhubarb pie. Save me a piece.”

  ONCE HE PAID FOR LUNCH, Randy ushered me to my car and gave me a kiss that practically melted the snow at my feet. I accused him of employing fancy lip action for the sole purpose of bribing me into putting aside some pie for him. He didn’t deny it. Though he did promise far more “lip action” in the near future. He even whispered a couple of his intentions, and they were so hot they almost started me on fire.

  After he left, I had to sit in my car with the windows down in an attempt to cool off. When that didn’t help, I resorted to blasting the air conditioner. But, before I got halfway across town, my teeth began to chatter, leading me to flip the air off and power up the windows. In the interest of self-preservation, I also shifted my thinking away from Randy’s lip-related talents to my decision to forego probing any further into Boo-Boo’s murder.

  I assumed I’d have second thoughts, yet I didn’t. Sure, uncovering the “who” and “why” behind my former boyfriend’s death remained important to me, but I was fine with leaving the job to those trained in such matters. Really I was. See, I was tired of repeatedly running smack dab into my own incompetence. What’s more, I didn’t want to do anything that might land me in jail since incarceration would put a crimp in my actual plans.

  Remember, I’d come to Kennedy for two purposes. One, I was here to attend Margie’s wedding. And, two, I wanted to become more intimately familiar with Randy Ryden. Quite frankly, though, his latest kissing demonstration may have propelled that second reason into the number-one spot. Sorry, Margie.

  Part III

  Set It Out for Everyone to See

  Chapter Nineteen

  AFTER I PICKED UP BARBIE, we headed back to Kennedy. Along the way, I told her about the shift in police thinking concerning her husband. But, rather than being thrilled, she got upset because no one in law enforcement had communicated with her directly. That, in turn, caused me to agonize over the possibility that I’d spoken prematurely. Yes, it was quite likely the police didn’t want that information made known to anyone, Barbie included, until corroboration had been obtained.

  I silently berated myself for my big mouth, then pledged to avoid similar missteps in the future, which meant keeping Tiny’s true identity to myself. To justify that decision, I convinced myself that because Barbie already knew the guy was law enforcement, withholding his federal status wasn’t all that terrible. Besides, skipping that discussion left more time for us to dish about the sheriff’s wife and her probable affair with the President. Still, I felt guilty.

  When we arrived at the Hot Dish Heaven Cafe, we found the Rhubarb Custard Pie near the back of the fridge, cut two sizeable wedges, and wolfed them down. It was only when we were done eating and drying our dishes that I mentioned I was stepping away from the murder invest
igation. I didn’t dwell on it because I wanted to avoid Barbie’s wrath. Nevertheless, she huffed her way upstairs, and I ended up worrying my bottom lip raw as I hid two slices of pie in the refrigerator’s crisper, behind a head of lettuce.

  “I can’t believe you’re not going to help me find the killer.” That was Barbie’s welcome as I entered my room. And she continued to grouse as she painstakingly inched her Spanx over her fleshy legs and wide hips. “The man was your first love for—”

  “Don’t start with that again. It won’t work twice.” I donned my dress before sitting on the edge of the bed and slipping into my new high heels. “I simply see no point in the two of us doing any more digging. It’s not as if we’ve uncovered anything new. The police were already aware of everything we found.”

  “Well, I can’t stand by while my husband gets railroaded.”

  “Like I told you, the police know the President lied. They’re pretty sure Tom was in the bar when Owen Bair was murdered. They just have to confirm it. So let’s back off and let them do their job.” I could hardly believe I was advocating less interference. “We also need to keep quiet about all this for the time being.”

  I rose and stared into the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door, glad for the distraction my image provided.

  Starting at my feet, I took in everything. My pumps were silver with a four-inch heel. My slip of a dress was forest-green, short, and silky. And I was accessorizing with silver earrings that nearly brushed my shoulders and a number of chains that draped around my neck and fell across my chest. Like my jewelry, the clip I snapped into my hair was silver and sparkly and held my partial up-do, which left a flood of red curls to spill over my shoulders and cascade down my back.

  Normally, my dress would have been considered too racy for a wedding, but since it was also New Year’s Eve, it was “perfectly fine” in Barbie’s opinion. True, I couldn’t trust her judgment alone, so I’d asked Margie about it the day before, and she’d been of the same opinion.

  After we finished dressing and were done with our hair, Barbie helped me with my makeup. And, believe it or not, she demonstrated a great deal of restraint, even though she remained irked at me and could have done major cosmetic damage if so inclined. Granted, she heavily painted my lips and shadowed and lined my eyes, but I didn’t look ridiculous. To the contrary. She was right. I had my “sexy on.”

  Speaking of Barbie, she wore a sleeveless, leopard-print number that was two sizes too small and four inches too short. Her hair was spiked, as usual, and she had on the same knee-high boots from the previous night. Now, however, she also sported a studded dog collar. One Otto appeared to regard with envy. I considered asking her to give it to my four-legged buddy or, in the alternative, leave it behind for the evening but ultimately decided I was in no position to make any requests.

  With a glimpse at the clock on the nightstand, I noted we were running late. I grabbed the faux rabbit wrap she’d loaned me, while she claimed her black leather jacket. Then, together, we ran downstairs, outside, and across the snow-covered parking lot, to my car. Five minutes later we were at the church, where we snagged seats in the back.

  THE CHURCH WAS PACKED and smelled of furniture polish, evergreens, and winter air. The organist softly played an assortment of Christmas music, as the folks around us exchanged their favorite winter-time greeting, “Eh, cold enough for ya?”

  While I didn’t recognize many of the people gathered for the ceremony, I did spot Margie’s niece, Little Val, and her husband, Wally. They were in the front row on the side opposite us. The Precious Moments bridegroom was nowhere to be seen, which I considered a good sign for their marriage, even if Wally was wrangling with another guy—the couple’s two-month-old son, Brian. Next to them sat Margie’s nutty aunts, Henrietta and Hester, and alongside them were Margie’s nephews, Buddy and Buford Johnson.

  My heart admittedly fluttered at the sight of Buddy, regardless that my view was limited to the back of his head. Yes, I’d probably always be smitten with the guy. Still, I’d never get involved with him, despite coming awfully close to doing just that a couple months back. Thankfully, I’d stopped myself in the nick of time.

  Without question, Buddy Johnson was wickedly handsome and devilishly charming. But, he also was a “player.” He enjoyed “flings,” and I was in search of something more. Something I sensed I could very well find with Randy Ryden. My instincts told me we had a chance at real happiness together. Maybe long-term happiness. Nonetheless, Buddy was enticing.

  The organist began the traditional wedding march, and Reverend Pearson started up the aisle, accompanied by Margie’s friend Father Daley. The two of them were followed by Vern and Vivian, Vern in a black suit, white shirt, and gold tie, and Vivian in a long, fitted dress of gold lamé. Adhering to the belief that if a little is good, a lot is way better, Vivian had unwittingly painted her face to resemble a character in a Stephen King novel. Fortunately, Margie and John soon came into view, giving everyone an excuse to redirect their focus.

  I had never seen John in anything but a baseball cap, plaid work shirt, and overalls or jeans, and I was astounded at how smart he looked in his high-end black suit, white silk shirt, and lavender tie. I was also amazed by his hair. Because he usually wore a cap, I never even realized he had hair. Yet, he did. It was light in color and buzzed within a quarter inch of his head, but it was there, right above his malleable forehead.

  While the skin around the bottom of his face was tan and ruddy, his forehead, which seldom got any sun because of his cap, resembled raw bread dough. The other farmers in the church boasted similar looks. And, collectively, they brought to mind giant pans of brown-and-serve rolls, waiting for the oven.

  Speaking of rolls, John still carried one around his middle, though it was far smaller than it had been. “He went on a diet,” Barbie whispered, as if reading my mind. “He wasn’t about to go to Costa Rica fat.”

  As for Margie, she wasn’t the least bit heavy, regardless of Vivian’s inferences during the bridal shower. Her dress fit amazingly well. Her cut-glass jewelry was understated yet elegant. And her lightly streaked hair fell in a soft wave, ending just a couple inches below her chin, perfectly framing her face. Her eyes and lips were done up just right, too. Apparently, she had been far more attentive than I was when Barbie was imparting makeup tips.

  “Isn’t she pretty?” Barbie asked, her voice filled with emotion.

  “Pretty, hell,” I whispered, invoking Margie’s persona, “she took pretty out back and smacked it around until it cried.”

  At that, we both covered our mouths to stifle our giggles.

  THE WEDDING CEREMONY was short but sweet. Little Val and her husband, Wally, sang “Grow Old with Me,” a song made famous by Mary Chapin Carpenter, and Father Daley provided a brief sermon, peppered with his own brand of humor.

  “When Margie and John first announced their engagement,” he began, his Irish voice booming, “I asked them, ‘What in the world took you so long? You’ve known each other most of your lives. Why’d you wait until now to marry?’ And John looked to Margie, who quipped, ‘Well, Father, what do ya want? Speed or accuracy?’”

  The congregation murmured their amusement before the priest went on to emphasize that the bonds of matrimony were sacred and should never be broken. He warned Margie and John that their marriage, like all marriages, would be difficult on occasion. “You’ll have your ups and downs, but don’t give up on God or each other.” He braced his hands against the sides of the lectern and scanned the folks sitting in the pews in front of him before returning his attention to the bride and groom. “Considering your age, however, you’ll likely face far fewer problems than young married couples.”

  He then grinned as something evidently came to mind. “During our counseling session, I asked John what he thought might be the easiest part about being a middle-aged, first-time bridegroom, and following much thought, he said, ‘Very little peer pressure, Father. Very little peer pr
essure.’”

  More tittering as Father Daley took his seat, and Reverend Pearson came forward to lead Margie and John in their vows. The pair pivoted toward each other, clasped their hands together, and, with trembling voices, promised to love one another and be faithful in good times and in bad, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Barbie. She was wiping away tears. Considering all the problems she faced, I doubted they were “tears of joy.” And while I felt sorry for her, I had no idea how to help her short of hunting down a killer, and since I had decided against that, I averted my gaze by refocusing on Margie. She was the happiest I’d ever seen her, and I couldn’t help but smile, even though my joy was fleeting because of the heartsick friend sitting next to me.

  AT THE WEDDING DINNER, Barbie and I polished off a bottle of wine before we finished our food. It wasn’t difficult to do. We were riding a roller coaster of emotions, and our minds were muddled with everything that had occurred over the last several days. Moreover, the wine, You Betcha Blush, was light and fruity and complemented everything on our plates, from the walleye and pork to the Rhubarb Salad and the Cajun Chicken and Rice Hot Dish.

  You Betcha Blush was one of three wines served, the other two being Wobegon White and Hot Dish Red. All were award winners produced at the Carlos Creek Winery, near Alexandria, Minnesota, where they knew how to make great wine.

  As Barbie opened a second bottle, Buddy’s twin brother, Buford, rose from his chair. “Hey, everybody,” he shouted over the hum of conversation and the clanging of silverware. “I’d like to start off the night by saluting John Deere, the man my aunt chose to marry. Please join me by raising your glass to John, a great guy, even if he’s so old that when he heard he’d get ‘a little action’ on his honeymoon, he decided he could leave his Metamucil at home.”

  While folks chuckled, Buddy stood to offer the second toast. “Again,” he muttered, plainly less comfortable than his brother at playing the role of jokester, “to John, even if he’s so old that to him, ‘an all-nighter’ means he never had to get up to go to the bathroom.” More chuckles from everyone, including John and Margie.